Around the world, and above - Winchester, Hampshire, England
by Kingification
Summary: The story of Raymond Andrews, a resident of Winchester, England. He recalls the opening of the UK to EU immigration during The Great Panic, the government's 'Outreach' relocation programme (and subsequent rioting), and the gradual infestation of Mainland Britain.


**WINCHESTER, HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND**

**[The tall bronze statue of Jesus Christ shadows over the courtyard of the Holy Trinity Church in Winchester, the patchy grass interrupted by lines of gravestones, both old and new. Raymond Andrews sits against the statue's plinth, basking in the sunlight as he waits for our rendezvous. As I approach him, he lets a small smile appear on his lips, before embracing me with a quick, strong handshake.]**

Blame is thrown around a lot these days; often by lads who were only young'ns at the eve of the war, and only understand what's handed down to 'em. Before the shit metaphorically hit the fan, our city was known as a safe seat for the Tory party, so more often than not, most of the older guys place the blame on the more liberal opposition. I've never delved into politics myself as it's never really interested me - so let me tell you the truth, without any of the bollocks.

Before the war, the country was completely up-in-arms over race relations and immigration, with more and more members of the public being swayed towards more conservative right-wing political parties like UKIP and the BNP. There was alot of racism - not on the surface, really, but there were a lot of whispers behind closed doors, y'know, about how the Mohammed's down the road were "a bunch of dodgy ragheads" and the sort. It didn't help the public perception of foreigners when lads were being carved up on the streets of Woolwich 'in the name of Allah', especially in the lingering shadow of 7/11.

To try to appease the critics of immigration, the PM at the time promised a referendum on the UK's independence from the EU, however in a pretty blatantly attempt at keeping control of the country, the referendum would only take place if his government was brought in for a third term in the next election, which was a full five years away.  
In hindsight, this was his first mistake - y'see, it was Britain's connection to the EU that buggered us in the first place. Being an island, we're pretty isolated from mainland Western Europe, which should have acted as a fantastic barrier from the swarms of undead that were quickly engulfing Germany, Belgium, France - well, bloody everywhere.

_**But it didn't?**_

Oh, god no. Trying to appease his little chums on the EU, the PM opened the flood gates and let refugees in from all over Europe - Latvia, Azerbaijan, Italy, Spain... you name it, we had it. The situation in the refugee camps got so bad that the Government had to start-up a relocation programme they called 'Outreach' - they'd pay anybody in the Southern coastal counties two-hundred and fifty pounds a month if they would give adequate space in their homes to a refugee family. Pretty soon we had Polish families living with the neighbours across the street, Belgian families living with the vicar; heck, I had a Romanian couple staying with me n' the missus for a while. A lovely pair, they were - we still have them over for dinner sometimes.

_**What went wrong with the system?**_

Well, first of all, half the people around didn't want Belinsk living next door with Richard, or Masood sleeping on their sisters sofa; pretty quickly, the whispers of racist jokes and name-calling became more like screams of anger. Every day the news would show another riot in Basingstoke, or an EDL protest in London that got a bit out of control and ended up with a bunch of pikeys on the wrong end of a high-pressure water cannon. I stayed out of it myself, cause I didn't see much of an issue with all the refugees; they were nice enough people, a fair bit nicer than a lot of the whites I knew - and I like to think I'm pretty liberal when it comes to immigration and all that bollocks.

The biggest issue was definitely in the government's handling of the influx - if I'm being honest, I don't think they really expected that many to come, as a lot of Europe had already been decimated by the time they chose to let them in. They had a lot of barriers which you probably wouldn't find anywhere else but in England - for example, they weren't allowed to use dogs to check for infected refugees because the RSPCA would get shitty! These poor border officers had to take these foreigners who had just escaped the jaws of a ravenous zed and check them from head to toe for bites. You hear often about how some had to do the same thing when they let Jewish refugees into Israel - but they had dogs to back them up. From what I'm told, these women would be stood there, skin bare from one end to the other, while some weird sixty-something combed over their entire body.

**[he shudders.]**

_**When did you first start realising that it wasn't entirely safe?**_

Well, I don't really think there was a massive 'realisation' that we were all about to be bummed. Y'see, it didn't happen gradually, like it did in America - the UK is a lot smaller, probably about the same size as one of your states, so the infection spread incredibly quickly. The first reports came in one morning when I was eating breakfast - rioting in London, yet again - but this time, the riots were at Heathrow, Gatwick, Stansted... and the rioters weren't throwing bricks, they were chewing faces.

Pretty quickly the entirety of London was infested, followed by the area surrounding Southampton airport, then Manchester; all the major cities went down in less than a week. I think it was the same week that the old PM ended up topping himself and his missus. In the end, the opposition came into power - but we didn't hear much from them, just the usual "stay in your homes, avoid contact with family members" drivel.

_**How badly was Winchester hit?**_

Well, the local authorities ended up doing a pretty good job with constricting the entrances to the city; the train station was closed, all the roads were blocked off, and some army units from the local base, the ones that weren't called in to support the forces in Southampton and Eastleigh, were called in to supplement the civilians that were guarding the roadblocks. We didn't see any attacks for a pretty long time, actually - a good month after London was declared a red-zone.

It was when the hordes from the surrounding areas started moving towards us, from more populated cities like Southampton, Eastleigh, Basingstoke, all places that had been pretty done-over in the first couple of weeks. We were pretty lucky, really; we had a good month to prepare, and the Government passing the Emergency Firearms Bill before they went dark meant that we were all allowed to be armed at all times without the pigs sniffing at our doors twenty-four seven. I had an old Webley revolver, a single-action six-shooter; it was bloody loud, I'll give you that, but you wouldn't miss a shot. I heard stories of people using their .22's to shoot the zeds in the head, but the bullet would scrape the skull, putting the poor lads in a panic - or should I say, picnic.

**[He chuckles a bit, before restraining himself.]**

I'm sorry, I shouldn't.

_**No, it's fine. Where did you go when they finally breached the cities defences?**_

Well, I had a few spots that I'd marked down in preparation for the attack; my main preference was for the old 12th century Westgate, the remnants of an Anglo-Saxon fortified gate that had been used up until the 1950s. It was above ground, only had one narrow, steep staircase leading to it, and had a good vantage point at the top for taking out any threats or just having a peak. I had it all planned in my head - my wife would grow a vegetable garden on the top, I'd set up our bedding in the museum room, and smash the staircase so that nobody could get in without using a ladder. It was perfect.

_**What made you change your mind?**_

When me and my wife got there and were ready to begin life in our new home, we found that it had been ripped in two by a tank shell. Zack were pouring out of it, like a bleeding wound. After that, in our panic, we ran and ran until I found the next most suitable thing.

**[He looks at the Holy Trinity Church, and smiles.]**

I was never much of a praying man, but something must have smiled on me that day. Fires were burning everywhere, people were screaming, zeds were scrambling for the kill - yet, through all that smoke that clogged the air and stang my eyes, through the blue glare of the flashing police cars, I could see light pouring down on the church. The wife and I fought our way to the gates, and were met by the vicar - the man who we would end up living with for the next seven years - who simply smiled at us. What he said next, I will never forget for the rest of my life.

"You've got red on you."


End file.
